


a love song for a condemned man

by Aequoria



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accursed!Noctis, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Not Really Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 04:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13310772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoria/pseuds/Aequoria
Summary: Ardyn Izunia wasn't the first Accursed. Noctis Lucis Caelum won't be the last.(The Astrals take both life and death from the kings that serve them, and Noct learns this the hard way.)





	1. Act I: Destruction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BigGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigGhost/gifts).



> This is a gift for the lovely hamlette, as part of the Thirst Squad discord server's Secret Santa!! Ham asked "to be punched in the face with angst, then soothed with fluff".
> 
> I swear I don't think it's quite as bad as the tags make it sound lmao! I hope you enjoy this, it's my first completed FFXV fic!

_ from the deep, the Archaean calls _ _  
_ _ yet on deaf ears, the gods' tongue falls _ _  
_ _ the king made to kneel; in pain, he crawls _

  
  
It wasn't supposed to be this way.   
  
He sees them, for one brilliant, blinding moment. Noctis is on the throne, Luna's gentle presence beside him. Her hair carries the scent of saltwater and sylleblossoms. It's his first breath in this new world.    
  
His father's hand settles on his left shoulder, and he hears a whispered word of pride. Distantly, he thinks he feels his mother's presence, sweet and comforting like he had always imagined.    
  
He closes his eyes.   
  
He hurtles into awareness with a scream.    
  
He's still on the throne, gasping for breath and feeling his life trickle out of him, warm and red. His slick hands scrabble desperately at the sword still embedded inside him. He doesn't know if he's pulling it out or pushing it further in.   
  
"No," he mutters. "No, no, no, please." His denial turns into ragged shouts that tear at his raw throat. "Dad!"   
  
He weeps.   
  
(This is how a chosen king dies: with blood and agony bubbling from his mouth, stripped of everything he is, unable to find his final rest.)   
  
(This is how the real daemons are born.)   
  
  


 

  
**Act I: Destruction**

 

 

  
  
None of them understand what it means at first. Gladio had been the first to react, pulling the sword from Noctis' chest with a sick squelch. There should have been no breath in his lungs to scream, but Noctis did; elixir after elixir crushed over his body even as he felt himself knitting together.   
  
"You're alive," Prompto had whispered shakily.   
  
"Your Majesty," Ignis had murmured, full of relief and awe, of raw, aching devotion.   
  
Noctis had done his best to smile.   
  
He doesn't smile two weeks later, when a steel bar for the reconstruction efforts falls and impales him through the gut, and he lives.   
  
He doesn't smile when his lovers look at him after every near-death, wary and searching despite their relief.   
  
He doesn't smile when his skin begins to crackle and sizzle with energy, the smell of singed flesh and ozone following him like a disease.    
  
This, after all, is just the beginning.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes years before Lucis gets back up on trembling, clumsy feet. During that time, Noctis learns some things.   
  
Galdin Quay no longer exists. The storms and surges have grown too dangerous for coastal towns, but living inland is no guarantee of safety. The Vesperpool has flooded its surroundings, and rumour has it that Altissia has crumbled into the sea. Lestallum now burns with a heat so intense that the roads crack open to let steam burst out.   
  
And then there are the whispers of the new daemons- strange, formless beings of ice and fire and lightning and rock. They are rare enough that Insomnia dismisses them as the wild hallucinations of people fleeing disaster. Noctis is not so sure.   
  
Here lies the problem: the world's magic was meant to die with the king.   
  
But Noctis is not dead. He doesn't think he even knows how to die. 

* * *

 

 

  
  
Three thousand refugees flee to Insomnia after a flash flood in Leide.    
  
The next week, a number of landslides in Duscae brings ten thousand.   
  
When Lestallum falls into the earth, there are few survivors. But the people of Cleigne are afraid, and one hundred thousand arrive at the walls of Insomnia, which has barely been touched.    
  
It is hard for the city, only just recovering from the darkness, to provide for them all. But still there would be more, Noctis knows, if only they had survived the long night.   
  
He is their King, and they are his people. He will not fail them again.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Noctis wonders, occasionally, whether his lovers are the only good things left in his life.   
  
On the days when his steps rock the earth and form cracks in the ground beneath his feet, Gladio picks him up and carries him where he needs to go. He cradles Noctis like he's something still delicate, still fragile, even though he can see the sweat beading on Gladio's skin from the exertion. Gladio is solid ground, a firm foundation. Noctis splays his hand out on his Shield's chest, feeling the strong heartbeat and letting himself be loved.   
  
Ignis can't see the way Noctis has changed, but he can sense it in other ways. He doesn't shy away from Noctis' cold hands, or the painful spark of electricity that leaps between their skin. He holds him close and kisses his hair and whispers devotions into his ears. He keeps his daggers sharp, the King's knife in the dark, and his love burns fierce and frightening.   
  
And then there is Prompto- sweet, beautiful Prompto, who deserves so much and asks for so little. Deadly with a gun and gentle with his kisses, Prompto chooses to stay by Noctis' side despite everything. He could have been a professional photographer, maybe, or an engineer; instead, he's learned how to kill for his King. Noctis loves everything Prompto is and everything he could have been.    
  
He is as devoted to them as they are to him. No matter what horrors fate has in store for them, he knows they will weather them together.   
  
But the years of King Noctis' reign are shaky. He misses the old times. It was dangerous, yes, but at least you could count on the darkness and the kinds of daemons that lurked within. Now, disasters are striking every corner of Eos on an unprecedented scale. Noctis can do nothing to fight it, and the people are sick of fearing for their lives. Ignis has his hands full still trying to rebuild; Gladio trains young men and women, not to fight, but to survive.   
  
(" _ Astrals _ ," Prompto whispers, late at night and curled in their bed. He kisses Noctis then, warm and sweet against his frozen lips. It is at once a prayer and a benediction.)   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
"The new world is preparing for its birth," Shiva tells him in a vision. Her voice is gentle and bitterly cold. "Fear not, King of Light. We will make it into something beautiful."   
  
Noctis sees it. He sees volcanic eruptions and ocean surges creating new islands, fertile and green. He sees lightning storms and fire, burning down the husks of trees that died in the long night, paving the way for new life. He sees ice forming in great sheets over seas and mountains, spreading and receding, exulting in the cycle of rebirth. He sees the Crystal, alive and eternal, granting its magic to the newborn humanity.   
  
Noctis sees this too: one million Insomnian re-settlers. One hundred and thirteen thousand new refugees. Countless more survivors in hiding, scattered across Lucis and beyond.   
  
He is their King, and they are his people.   
  
"No," Noctis says.    
  
Shiva never loses her smile. "Oh, sweet child. You cannot fight the new creation. You are the  _ creator _ .”   
  


 

* * *

 

 

  
"We're going on an adventure," Noctis says one day, making Prompto perk up. "Outside Insomnia."   
  
"It's dangerous out there," Gladio comments.   
  
Noctis shrugs. "Not any worse than here. It's only a matter of time before Insomnia gets, I don't know. Fried by lightning or something."   
  
"What would be the purpose of this venture?" Ignis asks. "These are natural disasters. These aren't daemons we can fight."   
  
Noctis looks at his hands, clenches them into fists, and relaxes them again. “I’ve heard that the really bad shit only happens when those  _ things _ appear. People say they’re like daemons. And I’ve got this weird elemental thing now. I don’t... I mean, I have to do  _ something _ .”   
  
"Noct's gonna punch a tornado in the face," Prompto says. He smiles, which makes Noctis smile. "Jokes aside, what are you planning, dude?"   
  
"I'm gonna punch a tornado in the face," Noctis repeats dryly. In truth, he has no idea.    
  
But some of his conviction must seep through, because Ignis nods thoughtfully instead of protesting. "Iris and Marshal Leonis can keep the city safe while you're gone. I think a tour of your lands has been long overdue, don't you think, Your Majesty?"   
  
The Regalia is gone, but Cindy has fixed them up with a new, heavily modified ride. Noctis sees it for the first time on the day they depart, and feels a surge of bile rise in his throat at the memory of another time.   
  
Gods. They’d all been so innocent back then.   
  
There’s no fanfare this time, though. Noctis probably should make some kind of address to the crowd that’s gathered, but his limbs feel heavy and the discomfort of the slow, muted burning in his veins is particularly bad today. Prompto takes his usual place, with Gladio in the backseat. Ignis slides into the back as well, and Noctis feels the bile rise again, acid burning worse than his fiery blood.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
The earth claims Gladio first.   
  
He dies a Shield’s death, like his father before him. Sword drawn, he’d fought against the towering, humanoid figures of stone and clay with everything he’d had. It should have been easy, after the Night. But they’d just kept coming and coming, and in the end even Gladio hadn’t been strong enough.   
  
( _ I love you _ , he’d said, right before his skull had been crushed in a massive hand. His eyes had been so warm and kind.)   
  
Noctis screams. The shockwave shatters the advancing rock, but it’s too late.

  
  


* * *

 

 

  
  
Noctis has had a lot of time to think, recently. He stares at his hands and watches the flow of molten earth through his veins. In the beginning, it had been agonising; now, it is nothing more than a minor annoyance. He freezes it over and watches his skin grow black and hard, before it settles. He casts a glamour over himself, and makes himself perfect once more.    
  
Ardyn had been the same as him, hadn't he? The Chosen King, the Healer King. He'd taken his people's daemons into himself so that they might live a little longer. It's a different kind of Scourge, but isn't Noctis doing the same thing?   
  
And now, here he is. It’s been so many years since he’d brought back the light, but now he’s fighting a new battle, against the Astrals, against Eos itself. Here he is, still alive.   
  
Still alive. Still alive.   
  
(In secret, he hopes that he can still die.)   
  
There is a hollow part of Noctis’ soul, and he thinks it’s where Gladio used to be. Gladio, his dad, all the other people they’d lost along the way. It’s getting bigger and bigger, and Noctis doesn’t even have to wonder if one day it’s going to swallow him whole.   
  
His hands tremble, and he clenches them into fists. He and Ignis and Prompto (and Gladio, Gladio should be here he should be breathing he should be  _ alive _ -) have been travelling the country, following the trail of utter devastation, destroying the strange elemental figures that appear. All he’s doing is buying time for survivors to run somewhere else, somewhere that will inevitably be destroyed and remoulded as well.   
  
He is so, so tired, but he can’t stop.   
  
Ardyn had lost his kingdom, his people, his soul. Noctis is going to make sure he doesn't lose anything again.   
  


_ Noctis Lucis Caelum _ , he thinks.  _ Some inheritance this is. _

 

* * *

 

  
The Regent Queen Iris Amicitia gets married to a sweet young man, a hunter she’d met during the Night, and the whole kingdom celebrates. It would be a reprieve, but the shadow of her brother exists everywhere, in the deep weariness on the bride’s shoulders, in the arrangements of gladiolus flowers that adorn the whole Citadel.    
  
Noctis is there in full raiment, Ignis and Prompto at his side. He wants to be there for Iris, but in the end, all three of them have to slip away. Ignis holds onto Noctis’ hand, cups his face once they’re in the privacy of their room. Noctis lets the tears fall, trusting in Ignis to allow him this vulnerability.   
  
He doesn’t tell him it’s going to be alright. Ignis never lies to him.   
  
“I love you,” he says instead.    
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Ignis burns two years later. The tears on Noctis’ cheeks evaporate into steam and his skin bubbles and blisters, glamour disappearing in his grief.   
  
He reaches out to touch Ignis’ cheek. Their skin melts together, and Noctis refuses to pull away. Ignis had loved him first, had loved him longest, and Noctis is never going to let him go.   
  
“Please,” he begs. It makes his burnt throat crack and bleed; the blood drips into his lungs, onto Ignis’ blackening flesh.    
  
_ That’s Lucis Caelum blood _ , Noctis thinks wildly.  _ Maybe it’ll make him live, too. Please, don’t let him die. Please, please, please, I can’t lose him too _ .   
  
( _ I love you _ , Ignis had said, before he’d been consumed by the flames Noctis hadn’t been able to control. His voice had been so clear and calm.)   
  
Slowly, Ignis’ body crumbles to ash in his arms.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
“When are you coming home for good?” Iris asks, her voice tinny through the phone.   
  
Noctis sighs and shares a glance with Prompto. “If I could, I’d be there by tomorrow. But we got another distress call over in Duscae.”   
  
“How many?” Iris asks.   
  
“Not many. A couple of families, I think. We’ll escort them to Insomnia.”   
  
“But you’re not staying,” Iris says sadly.    
  
Noctis looks at Prompto again, but Prompto doesn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know how many more are out there,” Noctis says quietly. “Every time I think we’ve found the last of them...”   
  
“People are resilient,” Iris says. There’s a fierceness to the statement, even as Noctis can detect her voice wavering. “We just... survive. It’s pretty amazing.”   
  
Noctis smiles softly. “Yeah, it is.”   
  
They don’t need to mention Ignis and Gladio.   
  
“Anyway, I had other news.” Noctis can hear Iris take a deep breath. “I’m having a baby.”   
  
Prompto stops where he’s fiddling with his gun, and races the few short steps to where the phone is on speaker. “Did I hear that right?” he says, near shouting. The smile on his face is wide and bright, and Noctis can’t stop looking at him. “That’s awesome! Congrats, girl!”   
  
Iris laughs. “Hi Prompto!” she says. “Yeah, you heard right. The doctors reckon I’ve got another six months or so, but I’m really excited.”   
  
“Take it easy,” Noctis says. “Don’t go around picking fights for a while.”   
  
“I know  _ that _ much, dummy. And I don’t  _ pick _ fights, though sometimes I wanna punch our government in the head.”   
  
“The real reason I’m not coming back,” Noctis jokes dryly, and Iris makes a frustrated sound.   
  
“I’m punching  _ you _ for that when you get back,” she says. “Ooh, better idea. Punch him for me, Prompto!”   
  
Prompto obeys.   
  
Noctis squawks in false outrage. “I’m your  _ king _ , don’t listen to her.”   
  
“She’s regent, I don’t have to listen to you til you get your throne back,” Prompto says, grinning.   
  
“And you’d better come take it back someday,” Iris says crossly. “We Amicitias are supposed to be Shields, not rulers.”   
  
Amicitias, plural. Noctis supposes that it’s true again, now, but he can’t help the pang in his heart at the reminder.   
  
He doesn’t know how Iris manages to pick up on it, but her next words are soft and a little hesitant. “I’m hoping for a boy. I was thinking... I want to name him after Gladdy.”   
  
The pang sharpens into something painful and raw, still, even after all these years. It’s all Noctis can do to just keep breathing. “Yeah, that’d- that’d be nice,” he says. “He’d have liked that.”   
  
Prompto’s steady gaze sharpens a little, and he picks up the phone. “We’ll call you again sometime, Iris,” he says. “Congrats again! We’re really happy for you.”   
  
There’s a pause. “Okay. Talk to you soon! Take care of each other.”   
  
“You take care too.” Prompto ends the call, and comes to sit beside Noctis. Their terrible camper bed creaks and groans with the extra weight, and Prompto wraps an arm around Noctis’ shoulders. The weight is grounding. “Hey, buddy.”   
  
Noctis turns his face into Prompto’s neck, hiding. “Stop calling me buddy. We’re in love.”   
  
Prompto laughs, and it sounds like a sob. Noctis feels a droplet land in his hair and slide slowly down his neck. “Yeah, I know.” He sniffles. “I miss them too.”   
  
Noct’s breath comes out in a shudder. It takes a lot of effort to maintain a normal body, a normal appearance, for Prompto’s sake. “He should be here. Fuck, both of them should be here.”   
  
“Gladio would be over the moon. Iggy would probably have all these tips about taking care of royal babies or something.”   
  
For some reason, that’s what does it. They burst into tears, and Noctis doesn’t know whether they’re laughing or sobbing their grief; it’s been long enough that they can put  it behind them most days, but not long enough to stop hurting. Noctis doesn’t think it’ll ever be long enough, but he’s glad Prompto is here to share in it.    
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Prompto grows older, and Noctis stays the same.   
  
It’s strange, looking at him. Noctis can see the way the years have worn down his sharp features into something soft and weary. His hair loses some of its brightness, his eyes their vibrancy, but he’s still the most beautiful thing Noctis has left in his life.   
  
They both know what is happening. Prompto looks at Noctis with a desperate kind of fear, and every kiss feels like their last.   
  
“Ever at your side,” Prompto murmurs fiercely. “I promised.”   
  
Noctis smiles and takes Prompto’s face in his hands, tracing the faint lines around his eyes and mouth with his thumb. He knows, he  _ knows _ Prompto can’t stay with him forever. One day, he will die- just like Ignis, just like Gladio, just like Dad and Luna and all the others Noctis has failed. And by some cruel twist of fate, Noctis is going to live.   
  
But until then, he will protect Prompto with everything he has.   
  
His hands have ripped mountains from the earth and carved rivers into plains. He’s commanded the very seas and sky to bow to him. It would take a hell of a lot to take Prompto from him, and Noctis burns to think about it.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
In the end, it’s sickness that takes Prompto away. It’s something that Noctis can’t fight, no matter how much he screams.   
  
( _ I love you, _ Prompto hadn’t had the chance to say before his breath had been stolen from his lungs. His touch had been so cold,  _ so cold _ .)


	2. Act II: Creation

**Act II: Creation**

 

  
  
Noctis celebrates his two hundred and fiftieth birthday, as always, with a death wish and a bottle of strong whisky.   
  
Galdin is his chosen haunt for the occasion. The Quay itself has long since been smashed to pieces; the strength of the waves over the years has meant there are very few remnants of the tourist attraction it had once been. The old beach is gone, and the water comes straight up to where the hills had been. In its place are sheer, rocky cliffs, and it is on top of one of these that Noctis sits, cross-legged and already drunk.   
  
“Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me,” he sings loudly, because no one is around to hear him. “It’s all shit now, it’s all fucked up. Fuck the Astrals and me!”   
  
He laughs and takes another swig of his whisky. It burns on the way down, but it’s nothing next to the constant fire in his body. He exhales, and the alcohol vapour in his mouth ignites, and he breathes out a fireball.   
  
He stops for a moment, surprised. Looks down at the bottle in his hand, shrugs, and does it again.   
  
Prompto would’ve found it hilarious, called him a dork, and tried to do the same. Gladio would’ve laughed and slapped his back. Ignis-   
  
Ignis had burned.   
  
Noctis rolls over into his hands and knees and retches, right over the side of the cliff. Wiping his mouth, he spits for good measure, and watches the mess disappear among the rocks and waves.   
  
“Take that, you fucking bitch,” he mutters to Leviathan. “That goes for all of you pricks.”   
  
As always, he gets no response.

  


* * *

  


If Noctis had to pick a day when it all went wrong, his first thought would be the day Prompto had died.   
  
They’d been in Insomnia for once. Noctis had wanted only the best care for Prompto, but nothing the doctors tried had seemed to work. The longer they stayed, the more Noctis could feel the pressure on him to take back the throne, from both Iris and the Council. The prince Gladiolus, now a grown man in his own right, had viewed him with suspicion and no little envy. It probably should’ve concerned him, but he couldn’t even _think_ about it. Not when Prompto was in pain, _dying_ .   
  
But then he’d gone.   
  
Noctis hadn’t even been aware of Iris’ hand on his shoulder, or the hush that had fallen as soon as Prompto had taken his final, rattling breath.   
  
A beat, and then-   
  
“What a waste,” Noctis murmurs to himself, surveying the ruins of what had once been Insomnia. “What a pitiable waste.”   
  
 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Ignis would have a field day if he could see Noctis now. He’s had a few hundred years of playing video games in some dingy underground bunker (the latest fashion in housing, until it inevitably floods), but even he can only take so much of it. He takes to books for a while; if he tries very hard, he can pretend he’s still in the apartment, sixteen and innocent, with Ignis leaning over his shoulder so they can read together.   
  
He doesn’t know how they’ve managed to survive, but in the ruins of the former City of Insomnia, there are books and scrolls even older than his time. He combs through every single one of them, more out of morbid curiosity than anything else. The words of Old Lucian on the dusty pages are a hazy memory of language lessons and strict tutors, but he has more than enough time to re-learn.   
  
And somewhere between the spidery scrawl of Old Lucian and the curved syllabary of Solheim, Noctis finds the truth.   
  
_Lakan Sidapa. Tala binti Sidapa, one hundred and fourteenth of her lineage. King Ceniza sol Arao. King Izunia Solaris, 114,_ reads Ardyn Izunia’s flowing script, cramped in the margins of an ancient scroll. _Ardyn Lucis Caelum_.

Circled in red:   
  
_Noctis Lucis Caelum, CXIV_ .   
  
Noctis runs his finger across the parchment, making a clean line against the dust. It’s his name, the sixth in a line- _a pattern?_ \- of rulers. Ardyn had been keeping track of them, had gone back and recorded these names, and known they were important.   
  
It takes time, but he cross-references each name as far back as he can. The dates match up; families split, or a different line takes over, and some new evil appears that is eventually defeated.  A hundred and fourteen generations between, without fail.   
  
Noctis looks at the magic rippling beneath his skin, and thinks of the power of crashing waves and moving earth, how easily they can destroy.   
  
A hundred and fourteen. He has a long time to wait.   


 

* * *

 

  
  
They’d tried to lock him up after Insomnia. Once he’d come to, and seen the devastation he’d unknowingly wrought, he’d let them.   
  
That had been a mistake.   
  
“You don’t deserve to be king,” the young Gladiolus had said, in a voice colder than Shiva’s ice.   
  
“Yes,” Noctis had said, his head bowed.   
  
“You killed my mother.”   
  
A sharp intake of breath. “I did.”   
  
“You don’t deny the accusations.”   
  
Strong. Resigned. “I don’t.”   
  
The regent prince- now king, because there is no way Noctis would be permitted to reign, not now, not over this ruined city- gave a sigh. It sounded rueful. “I can’t just let you go free.”   
  
Noctis had known this. He was dangerous; his power could be used to protect as much as destroy, could save lives and take them so easily.   
  
Like Ignis. Like Iris.   
  
No, he needed to be put away.   
  
“Just do it,” he’d rasped out, his throat still raw from crying.   
  
The king had placed a hand on his bowed head, but drew back with a hiss, as though the touch had burned him. “I’m handing you to our researchers,” he said. “We need to find out what makes you tick, if we have a chance of surviving all this. You’re the only one with this kind of magic. Would you do this, for your people? For my mother?”   
  
“Anything,” Noctis had said.   
  
Like a fool.   
  
(They’d had him for years, in a dark room in the bowels of the city. There had been pain, and terror, and violation as they opened him up to find _what made him tick_ . He could have frozen them, burned them, locked their hands inside his chest and watched them scream as he melted their flesh, but he’d controlled himself. He’d let them do it.   
  
_Anything_ , after all. For his sins. For his people. For Iris.   
  
It became easier when he finally stopped caring.)   


 

* * *

 

  
  
On his eight hundred and seventy-third birthday, Noctis takes a sharp knife and carves his heart out of his body. It grows back in ten minutes; it’s the longest time he’s ever been dead, so far. It’s still not long enough to see them again. He wonders if the Astrals have denied him the afterlife, too. He wouldn’t put it past them.   
  
Still, he tries, and hopes for the day when he will be with them again.   
  
_One hundred and fourteen._   


 

* * *

 

  
  
Someone had told him once before that people were resilient, that they survived. Noctis can believe that. How many generations has he seen rise up from nothing? Once upon a time he’d thought it awe-inspiring. Now... well. It’s getting a little boring.   
  
(Ignorant, insignificant, how he _hates_ the people of the new Eos, who’d cast him out after everything he’d done for them, _after everything he’d done_ -)   
  
It doesn’t matter. He prefers the company of the open air and nature, in any case. His only real contact with humanity is the occasional trip to buy video games and alcohol. His days are filled with sleeping and gaming and waiting, always waiting.   
  
One day, Noctis hears of a great city in the far corners of Galahd, untouched by fire or flood. There are whispers of an aging king and a covenant with the gods, of a safe haven from the Elementals that wander Eos.   
  
Noctis smiles, and begins the countdown. 

  
 

* * *

 

  
  
He thinks if he still had the ability to dream, it would be of Iris’ face, frozen in a horrified scream. Or maybe the hollows under Prompto’s eyes, or the smell of Ignis as he burned, or the hot spatter of blood from Gladio’s skull.   
  
He thinks it would be nice to remember their faces again. 

  
 

* * *

 

  
  
Who now remembers the King of Light? Once, the line of Lucis had been known, loved and hated equally during their reign. Noctis doesn’t remember much, but he remembers sacrifice and pain, and a sense of life being drained away before he’d even had a chance to live.   
  
His fate had been tied up in his family name for so long. And in the end, it had been for nothing.   
  
"What is your name?" they ask.   
  
Noctis hesitates. "Noctis," he says, the name bitter on his tongue. "Just... Noctis.”   


 

* * *

 

  
  
When he leans against his car with his eyes closed, the world stretches out before him like a map of sensation. The ground hums beneath his feet; a few miles away, the ocean laps against the rocks. The wind on his face feels like fingers on his skin, and he _breathes_ , the earth pulsing with the beat of his heart.   
  
This is his only consolation; a small favour, he thinks, for obeying the will of the Astrals early on. He’s glad he got the elemental magic. He doesn’t know how he would’ve handled having Ardyn’s abilities.   
  
His body feels weary and heavy, weighed down like rock. He lets a little of the pressure seep out of him, from the soles of his feet and into the bedrock below. There will be an earthquake later tonight.   
  
Out of pure boredom, he turns in the direction of Leide, forms his mouth into a small O, and exhales. His breath swirls into a vaguely humanoid shape, and he laughs, nudging it with a finger.   
  
“Give ‘em hell,” Noctis instructs, and the little tornado flies off to do his bidding.   
  
The glint of the sunlight on an approaching car, royal black and chrome, catches his attention. He squares his shoulders and stands up straight, pulling his leather jacket closer to himself.   
  
The car rolls to a stop, and four figures step out, stretching their legs with great groans of satisfaction. They head towards the petrol station’s shop, which is conveniently located next to his parking spot.   
  
“Ugh, I’m so glad to be out of that car.” The language of this time sounds rough and grating to Noctis, even with the speaker’s lilting voice.   
  
He inclines his head as they pass him to get to the shop. What makes their little party stop, he doesn’t know. Perhaps it’s some connection- to the Crystal, to fate- but it doesn’t matter. The leader of the party stops, and turns slowly and curiously to face him.   
  
The little queen stands before him. Noctis can see the shadows of her ancestors in every line of her face; it sparks a sense of familiarity in him, something long-forgotten, and he drinks it in greedily. He sees Iris’ sweetness and ferocity, sees Gladio’s strength and warm laughter.   
  
But her eyes-   
  
Her eyes are Crystal blue.   
  
It’s like a shock of icy water down his spine. He stares back, and the blue reminds him of a vague memory of someone strong and frail all at once, distant and beloved.   
  
Walk tall. 

It’s too much for now. His gaze drifts instead towards her companions: a fair-haired young girl, of barely sixteen; an older, serious woman with dark hair and a darker scowl; and another, smiling serenely, milk-white gaze directed somewhere to Noctis’ left. The full set.   
  
He takes a step forward, pastes on a welcoming smile.   
  
Amaranth Amicitia, one hundred and fourteenth of her line, gives him a cautious look. “Who are you?”   
  
Noctis grins. “Nobody important.”   
  
It is time.


	3. Act III: Completion

**Act III: Completion**

 

  
  
Noctis is in the backseat of a car. The sun is warm on his face, and he closes his eyes against the light. He pushes his face against the leather of the seat and breathes it in; it makes him feel sleepy, and he begins to doze.   
  
With his eyes closed, he can’t see the door opening, but he can feel it. A brush of cloth against his face, and arms wind around his body. He can feel himself being lifted up, and he is strangely small and weightless as he fits himself against the body carrying him.   
  
“Oh my gosh, he’s adorable,” a voice whispers urgently. It tugs at an old, dusty corner of his memory, and he opens his eyes blearily.   
  
Oh.   
  
Prompto- because it must be Prompto, how could he have forgotten how beautiful he was- stands in front of him, twenty years old and lovely. There is a bright smile on his face and hands are curled in front of him like he’s stopping himself from reaching out. Noctis gasps, and wriggles in the hold.   
  
A familiar laugh, low and fond, just at his ear. Noctis turns his head and feels the rough scratch of a beard against his cheek.   
  
“Be patient, Noctis,” his father says, and gently lowers him to the ground.   
  
Though Noctis had felt like a small child in his father’s arms, he seems to have grown by the time his feet touch the ground. He’s a little taller than Prompto, just the right height to wrap his arms around him and kiss his forehead. Prompto clutches at him tightly, as  though he is afraid of letting go.   
  
“I thought you were dead,” Noctis says, dazed and dreamy.   
  
Prompto giggles. “I am. You’re dead too, dummy.”   
  
It’s the matter of fact way that Prompto says it that makes Noctis stop. He holds Prompto at arms length and looks down at himself in confusion, and it’s then that he finally notices the difference.   
  
There’s no more pain.   
  
After two millennia, it had just become part of Noctis’ life. But he doesn’t see the spidery red burn of his veins, he doesn’t see the ripple of magic under his skin as his flesh smoulders and freezes. There’s no electric crackle in the air as he moves.   
  
A hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps, turning to face Gladio, who is whole and perfect and grinning like a madman. Noctis is swept up into a tight bear hug, and he laughs breathlessly, squirming.   
  
“Took you long enough,” Gladio says, setting him down and ruffling his hair.   
  
There is the sound of feet pounding against the ground. A body slams into Noctis and sends him to the ground, and suddenly he’s tangled up in Ignis, of all people.   
  
Ignis, whose skin is soft and free of scars and burns. His eyes are closed, but he opens them when he reaches to touch Noctis’ face.   
  
“You’re here,” he says, slow and wondering. “My dear Noctis.”   
  
Ignis kisses him then, all fierceness and fire like he remembers. Noctis wraps his arms around him and melts into his embrace.   
  
Eventually, someone pulls them off of each other. Ignis is bright red and embarrassed, but Noctis is still laughing as he stands up and straightens his clothes.   
  
“Everyone’s here, Noct,” Gladio says, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”   
  
And it’s true. Now that Noctis is looking, he sees them all around: there is Iris, waving at him with a sunny smile. Luna and Ravus and their mother, looking relaxed and happy like he’s never really seen them before. Clarus and Cor, Cid and Cindy. Countless other people, with names Noctis has forgotten, but it doesn’t matter. They are all beautiful with the weight of the world off their shoulders, and the sight nearly brings him to tears.   
  
A hand touches his. “You okay, buddy?” Prompto asks, and Noctis laughs through a sob.   
  
“I love you,” he tells each of his lovers, holding their faces in his hands. They drown him in kisses and warm embraces, perfect and real like he remembers.   
  
“I love you,” he tells his father, who ages no longer, his strength and vitality clear in his every step.   
  
_I love you,_ he says to each and every one of his people, and weeps without shame when he feels the sentiment reflected back upon him.   
  
_It is done._   
_  
I love you. I’m home._


End file.
